Parisian Persian!
by Harvest Dragon
Summary: England hates France. That's certainly no secret. When England tries to curse France, and it seemingly flops once again, he doesn't give it a second thought. But what is England to do when apparently, the French froggy's gotten FLUFFY?
1. Aristocat!

_**Parisian Persian**_

Chapter One

_Aristocat!_

* * *

_AN: What is **this**, you ask?_

_Harvest Dragon, the heck are you doing writing this when you have other things to do? D:_

_Well, it's a stress fic! An idea that surfaces it's head sometimes and is updated erractically! In other words, this will be updated when it's **updated**. So be prepared for waiting at points. Without further wait, read the strange creation of my ever-wandering mind!_

* * *

If there was one sole thing on this earth England wished he could destroy, it would most certainly be a particular landmass that was, amazingly, not soaked to the dirt with its excessive abundance of wine.

A nation whose mascot smelled of annoyingly expensive cheeses and had a frustratingly msysterious ardor.

That one particular person whose unbidden attention seemed to always swerve his way, always armed with a coquettishly taunting Cheshire's grin. Whose very name he loathed to utter, and whose foul froggish language caused him to sputter. Someone who could get under his skin better than _any_ obnoxiously loud American.

France.

Oh, how England _wished_ to prove to the proud Frenchman what a waste of valuable space he truly was, with his aged wine and cheese that was just as outdated as he was.

At least, in England's opinion.

Their fights were legendarily infamous around the entire world, with a quite a few countries still grudgingly holding them to the sometimes explosive outcomes of their blazing rivalry. And yet, despite the numerous losses France had been dealt by a truimphant England, the proud man bounced right back up and refused to consent that the British were indeed superior.

It _aggravated_ him so, to be mocked and berated by such a person, especially when he was blalantly and mockingly rediculed by him in _front_ of the other nations. And England had truly had it up to here with the Frechman's scathingly offensive comments.

This time, England would make sure France wouldn't bounce back so easily.

* * *

England presently sat, quite daringly, in the heart of Paris, having cooked up the latest scheme for France's inevitable fall. He was dressed up, quite sharply, in a black and rather suave Italian-styled suit and slacks, (minus the slicked hair and taped curl, of course). He had choosen a seat outside of a rather suspicious-looking shop, and had simply waited for the Frenchman to pass on by. Nations seemed to have the ability to indirectly sense each other's presence, and with the intense hatred between the two, it was only a matter of time before France found-

"_Bonjour_, _Angleterre_. This is a little out of the way of 'Smog City,' _non_?'"

The Englishman whipped around to see France standing behind him, a small yet unreadable (cocky, he presumed) smile on his face as he rested his hand on England's shoulder. He was in a suave white jacket, with a red hankerchief tucked into the breast pocket, and wore fancy white slacks as well. His silky blond hair was pulled into a small pigtail at the back, and his shiny black dress shoes squeaked with the tell-tale sound of newness.

"Hands off," England snapped, shrugging off the nation's hand with a hard emerald glare, and then surpressed a satisfied grin as he relaxed his posture. For revenge, he didn't mind acting a little more civil for just a _spell_. "Oi, France. How are you doing?" He asked, half through clenched teeth.

France was slightly taking aback. Usually, England would be gunning him down for insulting his capital, or furtively avoiding his attempts at conversation and go straight to the point he came for. In essence, he was acting rather out of character, but in truth France didn't really mind much.

It was almost refreshing when he and the stubborn nation could actually have a non-hostile conversation.

"I'm wonderful, _merci_," France replied, taking a seat across from the Englishman. "Germany and I are getting along very well now, with he and I being the great saviorz of the EU. As expected of _moi_." His blue eyes shone with self-love and adoration.

_There goes that bloody pride again_, England thought, rather annoyed by it all.

"So, why are _you_ 'ere, in front of a 'naughty shop' in Paris no less?" He asked slyly, lifting a brow amusedly as England glanced in horrified realization at the store, with a furious blush evident on his scrunched-up face.

"How would I know what it was?" He growled, quite embarrassed, as France chuckled to himself indiscreetly. "I don't read or speak _frog_."

"Hm," France replied, ignoring his last comment, "back to my question, if you please." The Frenchman leaned forward expectantly, his lids lowered a tad. "Did you come simply to visit me?" He asked, more breathy than England would've liked.

"Ah." England scrambled for a lie, and ended up going with a half-truth as he lifted a pouch of white powder out of his pocket. "I wanted you to try a new 'wine mix' I made." He said with a straight face.

France pursued his lips as the Englishman pushed it over to him with a pleased sort of expression. "What iz eet, exactly...?" He asked as his accent thickened, a little wary of the substance, and England made a face, as if frustrated with something.

"It was supposed to be a new pub hit," he sighed believiably, "but it didn't turn out right, and it tasted terrible mixed in with rum. So I tried it with wine, for experiment's sake, and I thought it tasted quite smashing. And I'm here because I want a _true_ wine connoisseur to sample it for me, to see if it's really as good as I think. I was wondering if you know anyone, _France_?" He emphasized, absolutely sure that the man's pride would push him to sample it himself.

France let a proud smile lift the corners of his lips. "Of course, silly Angleterre, you are looking at one," he purred.

He snapped his fingers, and in moments he had a fancy-looking chef handing him a glass of fine wine. "I will sample this immediately," he said with vigor.

The nation casually emptied some of the powder into the drink, oblivious to the Russia-like aura surrounding England like a ghastly cloud, and with a dainty tip of his cup he downed it all in one go as the British man watched quite wickedly.

"Well?" England asked anxiously, barely able to contain his glee. "How is it, old chap?"

"...Sweet," France admitted with a pleased smile. "Like the soft tender kiss of a lover upon the cheek. _J'adore_ _ca_."

England felt strangely empty then, as France seemed to be quite normal still. Not a sudden brutal cold. Nor was there erratic behavior, or even extreme and laughable cowardice.

France hadn't even flinched.

With a half-strangled cry of pent-up frustration, England abruptedly stood to his feet, and turned on France as the French nation opened his mouth in a surprised 'O' shape.

"You think you're so bloody _great_! Can't you just go _down_, you jolly **_twit_**, and _stay_ there?" He lost his temper momentarily, jabbing a white-gloved finger at the confused Frenchman. "Sod _off_, you wine-loving cheese-eating _fool_!" He snapped, quite cross.

And with that, the Englishman walked off rather briskly, leaving France wondering for the perhaps the very first time what _exactly_ went wrong with their seemingly _peaceful_ conversation.

As England made his way through the crowds, people shooting him looks of confusion and contempt, he muttered something that sounded, quite suspiciously, like dark curses.

"You slippery French feline," he muttered over his shoulder, and he melted like a shadow into the Parisian crowd.

* * *

"Alright, let this sacred meeting of the United Nations commence, bros!" America exclaimed excitedly, his bright blue eyes twinkling as he fluffed up his bomber jacket, glancing around the oaken table at the various assembled nations, and his brother Canada raised his arm in meek protest as he kept Kumajiro wrapped snugly in his other arm.

"Th-this is my house, America..." he complained rather quietly, "so it's my duty to start the meeting today-"

"Did ya say something, Canada?" America interrupted loudly, his Texan glasses glinting eeriely, and Canada slumped in his seat in a dejected and defeated manner.

"Maple..." he muttered under his breath, and Kumajiro decided to further bruise his low self-esteem with his signature squeaky question.

"Who are you?"

"Canada..." the poor nation whispered, seeming to fade a bit into the background.

"Mr. America, prease, what is the meeting subject today?" Japan asked, in his signature white military outfit with his ever-stoic expression on his face. He held up a record book of past discussions. "I'rr agree to agree to anything you say, Mr. America."

"Today we're here to discuss the economic crisis the world's falling into!" America declared boisterously, and England snorted, causing the younger nation to shoot a deep frown at him.

"You alone are bad enough a crisis to devote an entire _meeting_ to," the Brit interjected with a mean-spirited attitude, sipping a soothing cup of Earl Grey tea, and turned to receive the certainly scathing comment the Frenchman would deal him any moment. When no one spoke, he then realised that France was not present, which was indeed rather odd. Considering that France would have the opportunity to brag about he and Germany's partnership in tackling the EU crisis, England found it highly improbable that the nation would skip such an opportunity for ego-boosting.

"Ve~" sighed North Italy, his eyes shut laxly per usual, "where's big brother France?" He inquired curiously as he played with a strand of his auburn hair lazily.

"Shut up, you bastard! Don't call him here!" Romano hissed, knocking his brother upside the head quite harshly as he glared at him with narrowed gold eyes. "We already have _them_," he jerked a thumb at a doting Spain at the other end of the table and a bristling Germany by Italy, "to deal with, idiot!"

"That is very strange," Japan said, his voice still a deadpan as Italy teared up. "Mr. France is usuarry here before a rot of us."

"Ja. Zat veirdo is usually here by now," Germany added with the tiniest hint of worry in his harsh tone, his deep voice like a boom over the other nations. "I vonder if something happened to ze fool."

"Ai-yah..." The eldest Asian nation sighed. "I really don't mind, one way or another," China declared, petting his panda contently, "I just want to go home and play with my Hello Ki**y collection."

"I do wonder where he is though," Russia mused, stroking his chin with a gloved hand. "This is a 'crisis' meeting that deeply involves him, so I don't understand why he is not being the present..."

The large nation turned to England. "Do you know, da?" He asked politely. "You seem to know him well."

England turned up his nose in a snobbish fashion. "Why would I bother knowing a _frog's_ whereabouts?" He asked with contepmt, glaring quite hard at the Russian before a murderous look from Belarus had him staring into his tea instead. But, quite truthfully, the Englishman was growing agitated.

_Why wasn't the Frenchman here already?_

"M-Maybe he's running an errand..." Canada interjected, and America shook his head with sadness as China began to play with one of his stuffed Hello Ki**y dolls.

"France can't skip out on my meeting!" The nation lamented, producing a cheeseburger from within his jacket, and began chowing down in a melancholy sort of manner. "I'm too cool to play hooky against...!" He said through a mouthful of meat, half of which sprayed all over poor Finland. Sweden gently dabbed the pieces of wet burger off of Finland with a white hankerchief as the smaller nation smile quavered on his mild face.

"It's my meeting..." Canada corrected a bit testily, but America was too busy drowing his woes in his junk food to notice.

"How distasteful," England remarked snidely, trying to ease away the odd dread coiling in his stomach. "Then again, what about America _is_ tasteful?" He quipped quite rudely.

America glared fiercely at him, shooting a few rude comments at the Brit loudly and curtly, and before the Englishman could reply back, Germany had stood to his feet exasperatedly.

"ENOUGH!" He ordered with a dangerous boom, causing Romano and Italy to openly cower. "Is _zis_ how we deal vith such a situation? We must _zhink_ logically!"

The room was dead silent as the German took a deep breath to calm himself.

"Good. Now, vhen is zhe last time anyone saw him?" The nation asked, looking around the table with steely blue eyes. "Speak up, and be quick about it!"

England nervously cleared his throat, and every nation present turned their eyes on him.

"Does the stuffy guy got somethin' to say?" Turkey asked with a teasing gruffness to his voice, and Greece sent him a withering glance.

"Shut up Turkey. No one wants to hear your stupid voice," the Greek said quietly, and Turkey shot him a dirty look through his white mask. A glare from Germany shot down the petty disagreement before it could take off, and the German turned to England expectantly.

"I visited him two days ago," the Englishman began, and America's eyebrows rose in shock.

"Whoa! You _visited_ France?" America butted in obnoxiously, earning a glare from both Germany and England. "That's like...totally out of characte-"

"To curse him with bad luck," England continued over America, his face rather serious, and _several_ countries rolled their eyes at this, including America.

"England, those never work dude," he said with a taunting grin, and the Brit plainitively ignored this.

"And so, when it failed-"

"Like always."

There was a short lapse, which ended with America tied with steel cables to a chair next to Russia, with duct-tape slapped over his mouth as he struggled helplessly despite his great strength. Russia gave him an eerie smile, and the Amercian suddenly felt a pinch of distress.

"I went home after I didn't have any success, and...that's the last I saw of him," England finished, feeling quite awkward, and hating the coil of ever-increasing dread in his stomach. Then, unexpectedly, Canada cleared his throat pointedly.

"Mr. France called me yesterday."

Every nation's eyes swerved over to the presence-less nation, who held Kumajiro to his chest tightly.

"Vhat did he say, erm..." Germany awkwardly trailed off, blushing embarrassedly.

"Canada," the nation supplied him with. "He called, and he sounded rather strange..."

"Strange how?" Italy asked curiously, and Canada fidgetted a little in his seat.

"He sounded like he was about to hack up something," Canada said. "His voice kept cracking and making these funny mewling sounds...and he was telling me how he felt really strange."

England was quite alert, listening to every word the Canadian uttered.

"And I asked him how exactly he was feeling, and then...he made the strangest sound...and the line went dead."

Germany thought this over for a long while, his brow crinkled in concentration, and then, finally he looked at England quite pointedly, as did the other nations. He felt caged as they scrutinized him with seemingly accusitory eyes.

"What?" He exclaimed, flustered, as Norway stood to his feet with a zombie-like expression on his stoic face.

"England," he deadpanned, "what kind of curse did you try to cast?"

The Brit cleared his throat nervously. "Just a simple 'bad luck' powder!" He insisted a bit desperately, "It's as easy to make as my scones!"

At this statement, every nation _knew_ in their hearts that France was probably dead in a ditch somewhere in Paris.

Italy, however, was the only one idiotic enough to voice this out loud, with an abundance of tears.

"Big brother France is dead...!" He sobbed, and Romano hit him upside the head once more with a growl of annoyance. England grew a bit dejected at this unwittingly harsh statement, truly starting to wonder if he had indeed killed the Frenchman.

Just then, the door creaked open slowly, and the nations turned to see a fluffy white ball pushing open one of the doors with burdened, wheeze-like meows. As it slipped in, it's head held high, the countries watched as the 'fluff ball' marched along until it approached France's empty seat, and with a grunt launched itself into projectory, landing on the edge of the chair. Wobbling percariously, it managed to tip into the seat, landing on its head quite hard, and stood in the chair quite proudly. Upon closure inspection, it appeared the fuzzy ball was a Perisan cat, with shining blue eyes and long white lusterous fur, with a French-flag themed ribbon tied around its fluffy neck.

There was a dead silence in the room, before Italy once again broke the awkward silence. "It's so fluffy, Romano!" He said with a gasp, and his older brother face-palmed as Italy's eyes opened wide. "Ve~"

With a haughty look (too human for a cat) the Persian tilted it's head and meowed curiously. At least, that's what it sounded like to every nation but one.

_'Eh? What'z the matter?'_ England heard the cat say, in an awfully familiar voice. _'Do I look so tuckered out today that you can't stop staring?'_

The Englishman paled as the cat looked about the table. _'Alright, what eez it?'_ The Perisan asked. _'I don't like this joke; I already know I'm gorgeous!'_

England's mouth dropped, his eyes as wide as teacup saucers. "Sweet Queen _Elizabeth_..." he breathed disbelievingly, as Norway's normally narrowed eyes widened in shocked realisation.

"England." Germany said as the cat fluffied up its silky fur vainly, in a way the German knew only one person did. "Is that cat...?" He trailed off, scarcely believing it.

"Ah...I..." the Brit couldn't even articulate a proper sentence, and the cat looked at Germany with an odd look on its face.

_'Eh? What are you calling me a cat for, Germany...?'_ He meowed, confused, and looked down to see furry white paws instead of his gloved hands. His eyes widened, his pink nose quivering with distress, before he let loose a blood-curling screech that had Belarus reaching for her knife.

_'My beautiful hands!'_ He cried out in despair, looking as close to tears as a cat could get. _'Mon Dieu! What sorcery has done this to my lovely face?!'_

As the cat wailed to itself, looking frantic, everyone looked at Norway and England, the latter still speechless. The Nordic country cleared his throat, clearly realising his fantasy companion was incapable of speech at the moment.

"I think," he began in that soft deadpan voice, "we've found France."

* * *

_So, what did you think? Thumbs up? Down? _

_Should I continue? I need reviews!_

_I personally like Hetalia to an extent; there are some things that weird me out, or go too far. But it's a great idea, and I love cats. So, this was going to happen eventually! XD_

_Sayonara, Harvest Dragon_


	2. How to Feed a Persian?

_**Parisian Persian!**_

Chapter Two

_How to Feed a Persian?_

* * *

The nations of the world looked silently at the frantic Persian, and then at a frozen stiff England, understanding slowly dawning on them all as the cat continued to caterwaul mournfully.

"Dude." America had freed his obnoxious mouth from the tough duct tape, courtesy of a pitying Canada, and he shook his head disbelievingly. "You turned France Pants into...a cat?" He snorted.

"N-no! I bloody didn't!" England snapped in his own defense, his cheeks red hot as France looked at him with huge luminous blue eyes. "That curse was a bleeding flop! He was supposed to have bad luck!"

_'Angleterre...you tried to curse moi?'_ France asked with a loud and uncomprehending meow, and England flinched visibly at his rival's immediate confrontation of him. _'While Europe is in a crisis?!'_

The white Persian looked quite angry now, and his fur fluffed up menacingly as he began to make a rumbling sound. _'I cannot believe you!'_ He hissed venomously at the Brit, and the Englishman felt quite a twinge of guilt as those words sunk in. Germany pinched he bridge of his broad nose and exhaled slowly, the deep sound echoing in the pin-drop silent room.

"Zhis is a problem..." Germany said lowly, "Ve need France, especially in vhis crisis..."

"Well, who'll take care of big brother France in the meantime?" Italy asked, an eager look in his opened eyes. "He can come to my hou-"

"It's my house-a too, bastard!" Romano growled, hitting over the head with a fist. "And I don't like stupid cats, or France! Besides, we're busy with our government-a issues, so it's not like I wanna help-a anyways!"

"Owww, _fratello..._" Italy cried, smarting tears in his eyes.

(_'That iz so cruel,'_ France lamented, his thick fur lying flat with a whimper.)

"No way, he no look enough like Hello Ki**y," China refused.

"Hee, he is so cute!" Belgium declared, and Netherlands was silent as his mouth remained in its usual inexpressive line.

Greece snored, having fallen asleep before France's appearance.

"Big bruder," Liechtenstein began, "we can take care of him, right?"

"Ah, I'm allergic to cats," Switzerland said hastily, not looking into her innocent eyes.

"Mn, I'm busy," Sweden mumbled lowly, and Finland shrugged helplessly as he sniffled sickly. Denmark paid no mind to the conversation and opted to poke an irate Norway's cheek.

"If he comes to my house I'll end up killing him vith my frying pan," Hungary said with an unnatural glint in her green eyes, "but he is a cutie, I must admit!"

"I'll take him! I'll take hiiiim!" Italy insisted excitedly, having recovered, waving his noodle-like right arm frantically. "The pretty French kitty can stay with-a me...!"

"Shut up you imbacile!"

"I don't vant to take him eizher," Austria said, pushing his glasses up his face with a haughty look upon his shiny face. "He'll be a drag on our splendid economy!"

"You're just making excuses, s_í_?" Spain asked bluntly, with a wavering smile. "_My_ economy is _much_ better than yours, _mi amigo_...but I don't have time for a pet with so much work to do..."

"Uhuhuhu. I'll take him off your hands, if worse come to worse. Kitty is so cute, da?" Russia smiled at the Persian with an aura of darkness, and the cat's fur stood straight up on end with unease.

_'Non non non!'_ He moaned, looking quite the miserable cat.

"Werr, I have idea, if I may share," Japan said unexpectedly, in that calm way of his, and Germany turned towards his fellow sane nation with the closest thing to eagerness the macho man could exhibit.

"Vell, go ahead zhen," Germany prompted, and the island nation stood to his feet smoothly, clearing his throat daintly.

"Well, I do not rike to be pointing finger, but Mr. Engrand is the one who cursed Mr. France. Correct?" Japan confirmed politely, and the nations nodded in unanimous agreement.

("It was a bloody accident," the eccentric nation muttered under his breath with crossed arms, his face scrunched up in one of his signature Ebenezer Scrooge style expressions.)

"So therefore, Mr. Engrand shourd take care of Mr. France untir we reach a concursion to fix him, is what I think," he finished, and Switzerland was tempted to give him a standing ovation for a split second for actually giving an original and non-American idea.

"What?!" England choked on his spittle. "You're joking!" He protested as many of the nations started to agree, nodding their heads as Japan sat down and purposefully avoided looking England in the eye.

"It does seem fair," Lithuania said, his voice a tad strained, as he patiently endured Poland braiding his soft brown hair and bowing it up with an unmanly pink.

"Yeah, like, it vould be like totally unfair for someone else to take care of him," the strange nation representative said in that signature valley girl talk, as he moved on to another section of his friend's hair.

"I agree too!" Turkey said with that grin of his. "It'll be a good lesson for ya-" he cut off as Greece's soft snore pierced his speech mid-sentence, and the Turkish man elbowed the Greek in the gut so hard that the other nations heard a sharp crack. "Shaddup!"

As Greece and Turkey began to wrestle with one another, Russia frowned rather wistfully at the Persian, fiddling with his gloved thumbs.

"What a shame. I would have had much pleasure having the fun with kitty," he sighed, and Belarus none-too-subtly flashed a sharp knife in the cat's direction, apparently jealous of the attention France-cat was getting from her brother. France at this point looked quite tramuatized, and was visibly shaking.

"Vell, it looks like we all agree on vhat we vill do," Germany boomed. "There appear to be no objections, so..."

"_I_ object! I'm not taking this flea-bitten Parisian rat to my eloquent house!" England thundered. The Persian nodded its head violently in partial agreement, its eyes wide with horror at the southern-bound situation.

_'Please don't make me go with Angleterre!'_ He begged, writhing in his chair on his stomach. _'I implore you; hiz 'orrible cooking will leave me dead within zhe day...!'_

"Shut up, you git!" England snapped at the grovelling cat, and then flinched as the nations stared at him blankly.

"You can...understand him?" Norway asked in that deadpan voice, and the British man's words came out like fumbling footballers as everyone watched him expectantly.

"I...he...ah..."

"If you understand him, then you vill take him home," Germany said, and the Persian moaned at the German's final verdict.

_'I'm in zhe 'ands of bastards...!' _France declared mournfully, and curled up in a ball of white and sulky fluffiness. England looked so indignant that he seemed to run the risk of exploding into nothing more than a pile of gentlemanly British ashes.

"All in agreement?" Germany asked, as England seemed to be mute with anger, and a chorus of various variations of 'yes' in seemingly every language filled the air. The German nodded, satisfied, and turned to England and France curtly.

"Ve vill be discussing vhat to do about France in the next meeting," he said, ignoring the frantic pawing and mewling the Persian was subjecting him to. "For now, look into how you can possibly cure him. America, I leave the rest of zhis meeting of yours to you!"

"It's...my meeting..." Canada tried to remind them, and shot a concerned glance at the sulking rivals as he was ignored yet again. _I wonder if this will end well at all..._ he thought forlornly, as Kumajiro looking up at him without a sound. _But then again, what_ does _end well with these two involved?_

* * *

"For the last time, you bloody _twit_, **_shut up_**!"

England was vainly trying to handle the Persian in his hands, as the white and fluffy cat twisted and turned in his grip with ill-mannered hisses, lashing out with sharp claws at the British man's face and suit. "Quit it!" He demanded as he winced away from the blows, but the cat ignored him completely and left a nice gash over his right bushy eyebrow with a swift swipe.

They had headed to England's place after the meeting, and already the Persian was beside himself with anger at the wicked nation's selfsih actions. He hadn't spoken to England since the meeting, and instead had acted incredibly hostile to the man when confronted by him, such as stratching and biting with his strong little jaws, to spite the British man.

And quite frankly, it was working like a charm.

"I can't help you if you don't bloody cooperate!" England hissed, and pinned the Persian onto the ground with a hand. France squirmed violently as the other nation inspected his paws, squeezing them rather roughly and feeling all over his fluffy body for any signs of alarming abnormality.

_'Stop violating moi!'_

"I'm _not_ you git," England mumbled, lost in concentration as he mulled something over in his head. "I'm looking to see if anything's weird, or out of place due to this curse..."

_'Zat you so loving and justly gifted me with,'_ France snapped as he rolled away from the man's prying hands, and the Brit frowned a little at the acidic venom in the Frenchcat's normally suave voice. _'I 'aven't done anything to you in years!'_

"Grudges run strong in England," was the curt reply, to cover up the blasted guilt he felt deep in his being. "What goes around comes around."

_'Then I imagine you'll turn into a nasty sewer rat soon,'_ France shot back, _'and trrrust me when I say I'll be waiting.'_ And with that, the moody French cat stauntered proudly into the darkened house. As France vanished into the dimly lit hallway, heading towards England's inner chambers, the British man could finally allow the weight of what he had down hit him full-force over the head.

He was stuck with a moody French cat.

Not any cat, but the very enbodiment of France, who was also his sworn rival for life.

And not to mention the effects of the curse could be indefinite for all he knew.

"...I'm a bloody twit."

* * *

Hours later, England was sitting in his bleak garden outside on a fancy stone and dark wood bench, the gloom of the dark clouds in the sky a reflection of his turbulent mood. France was nowhere to be found, and the Brit was completely sure that the Frenchman now hated his hide more than ever before.

He found he was a little bothered by the cat's absence, but was still much too stubborn to go look for him amd instead patted wincingly at the slices the Frenchman had dealt him. _Why do I have to understand ALL magical creatures?_ He thought to himself, wincing to think that France did count as a fantasy creature in this human-intelligence animal form.

It was only when his stomach rumbled that he was reminded that he was hungry, and grudgingly admitted France probably was too. So with a stretch and a groan he stood up, his limbs aching from the chill of sitting outside for a while. London's winter WAS approaching, after all.

When he made his way into the house, he manuevered throught the house to the fancy dark green and black themed dining room, where conviently the Persian lay on the floor with a lucid expression on his furry face. At the sound of England approaching, he didn't so much as twitch, but rather flicked an ear irritably.

"Oi. Frog."

The cat turned to look at him, and England fidgetted a little as he still said nothing. Not even a purr or a nasty hiss.

"Are you hungry?"

_'...Non.'_

The sound of a small stomach rumbling pierced the air, and France's pink nose twitched, obviously a bit embarrassed at being caught dead in a lie. England frowned, his bushy brows coming down over his emerald eyes in frustration at the lack of cooperation on the Frenchman's part.

"I won't poison you," he said a little crossly, and France's eyes glinted with human disbelief.

_'Ah, C'est vrai.'_ He purred in agreement. _'And that iz why I look like zhis.'_

And that was the end of that.

* * *

The Englishman busied himself in the kitchen straight away, and within minutes France had wandered into the kitchen due to the unsettling smell coming from the cooking food. With a languid meow the cat nimbly hopped onto the kitchen ledge and warily watched the gray sludge, erm, soup in the pot bubble and boil like a melting slug.

"I've been experimenting with soup, and even a fro- ah, cat like you will have to admit to my superior cooking skills when it comes to this dish!" He bragged, and France looked horrified as he realized the monstrosity in the pot was for him.

Ignoring his frantic cries for help, England grabbed France by his furry scruff and spooned up some of the gruel-shaming horror in a silver spoon. "Oh please, would you shut up and taste it, you bloody cat!" And with that the nasty gray terror went down the cat's throat.

Blue eyes bulged with horror before they crossed, the cat starting to spasm as if possessed by the vile substance, and England was admittedly genuinely freaked out when France's body went completely limp.

"Oi! Frog!" He shook the French cat roughly , to no avail, and began to panic. "Gah! I can't kill him so soon! Need to call someone...ah! Maybe...!"

And that was the day England met the RSPCA.

* * *

_AN: Hello everyone! I was in the mood to add another chapter, so I did. This isn't going to be so regular, so sorry for this false impression! XD _

_I have a poll on my profile! Rate me, please! 8D_

_This was a set-up to France's final verdict and 'settling' into the house of England, so I hoped you enjoyed it. Chapter Three will come who-knows-when, but a little review might speed me up a tad...or you can not review and I'll be forced to eat slug-stew._

_Review?_

_Sayonara, Harvest Dragon_


	3. Of Swindling and Tomatoes

**Parisian Persian!**

Chapter Three

_Of Swindling and Tomatoes_

* * *

After a long and stern conversation with a hardy-looking young man with rather piercing brown eyes - who tried several times to take France off of England's hands permanently - he was forced to pay quite a large (and to be frank, overpriced) sum to have the fluffy nation "repaired."

"Sir, are you absolutely certain that you can take proper care of this beautiful cat-"

"Yes, I can take care of him!" England snapped, his eyes flaming with crackling green magic. "I won't ever feed him such _high-class_ food again!"

The man cleared his throat, as if to somehow magically diffuse the tense situation. "He'll be back within twenty-four hours." He tipped his hat. "Have a good day sir." He said politely, holding France in his arms quite gently.

As if he actually _cared_.

"Can't say I wish the same," the Brit muttered under his breath, and shut the door in the RSPCA man's face with anything _but_ gentlemanly force.

When France came back a few hours later, he was sound asleep in the man's arms, the gentle purrs of the Persian almost soothing to England's ears.

But only almost, because obviously France couldn't EVER hope to sooth him.

"Your cat should be up and kicking soon," he reassured the nation, who curled his lip as he gathered France's silky soft mass into his arms.

"Joy," England said dryly. "Good day, sir."

"Good day."

As the door closed, England looked down at France's sleeping form. Long whiskers twitched occasionally as furry paws shivered from time to time, and England found his eyes softening as the cat gave a cute little yawn before snuggling into England's warm chest.

"...At least you're tolerable in your sleep, frog."

Of course, he instantly rebuked the semi-mushy thought and would never, under no circumstance, breathe a word of it to anyone.

After setting the French cat on a chair, the Englishman decided he'd look into France's strange curse in the meantime. With brows furrowed in intense concentration he crept quietly into the darkest corners of his strange and magic-coated house.

Within England's dimly lit study was a measure of countless books, some dusty with disuse and others opened and marked with various highlight ink. Presently, England skimmed through these books, his eyes bright with purpose, and chuckled as he found the object of his desire.

"The Book of the Cursed!" He said excitedly, pulling out an ancient-looking black book with an ominous aura, and began to flip through it. "Let's see..."

There were various spells and curses, and England impatiently flipped past many in his intense quest.

"Boil Curse...Love Spell...Sickness Curse..." he muttered absently, flipping through the coarse golden pages. "Animal Transformations!" He finally cried in triumph, and began to read the description of the effects aloud.

"To cast this curse, I will warn, the effects are bleak and quite forlorn. For that unfortunate soul, I shall say one thing; unless there is understanding, this eternity...shall forever ring."

England was speechless as the daunting horror of the serious situation sunk into his head like a black and looming fog, wrapping him in its clutches.

"The frog will be a feline...for all eternity?" He breathed in horror. "S-surely there must be a cure!" He demanded, rereading the description again carefully.

"The cure for such a dreadful curse is...pure...reconcilement?!" England said in disbelief, and scrunched up his face. "That's bloody impossible! I've fought with that cheese-scarfing wine-loving _twit_ for countless _centuries_, and this blasted book wants me to become _civil_ towards him all of a sudden?! Preposterous!"

With a grunt of anger, he slammed the book down and stormed out of the study, with a mood not unlike the London fog about his figure.

The British man, after a good while, had eventually decided that he should go look for the Persian, since he had been brooding for so long that he had exceed even his own moody-time limits. With shuffling steps, he went up the eerily lit hallways, looking to and fro as he poked his rough blond head into the various doors. When he reached his room, he was greeted with the sound of languid purring, and he wrenched open the silver door to see France lounging quite comfortably.

On his soft, luxurious and exquisite Victorian bed.

Shedding. Long. White. Hair.

Something dangerous in England snapped right then.

"BLOODY FELINE!"

The white cat startled as his fur fluffed up, his eyes comically wide, and he scrambled to his paws as England approached him, with murder in his blazing green eyes.

_'A-Angleterre, iz there a problem_...?' The poor Persian was backed into a corner slowly as England drew ever nearer. _'I...but...ah, I couldn't rezist! Your bed was too soft! Forgive me_!' He screeched in desperation.

"Sleep outside, you French mutt," England seethed through his teeth, and roughly grabbed the Persian by the scruff. He stomped out of his room and out his front door, and tossed the poor cat onto the cold ground with icy frigidness.

The cat shivered in the cold London air, despite the thick fur surrounding him, and looked up at England with eyes wide in disgust. The nation stared at the pathetic cat for a brief moment before slamming the door shut, and France felt as if the door was not the only barrier that had just been slammed between them.

'..._ So, you _are_ still a bastard, Angleterre...'_

Inside, England watched the Persian from the window, and felt that odd and wretched throbbing in his chest as the cat curled up into a fluffy ball on the stone gray earth.

"Blast all...he's the one who shed bloody fur onto my Victorian sheets on my bed..."

For perhaps the first time, England wondered if he had been too frosty to the Frenchcat. His hand lifted towards the front door handle ever so slowly as he mulled over this troubling thought...

But of course, his bloody British pride pushed his hand back down and turned him around, but left him with the burden of a living guilt to deal with when he finally turned in for the night.

* * *

The next morning, England found himself rushing to the front door much quicker than usual, forgoing a morning coat as he dashed out in his warm grass green pajamas.

And no, it was not for the sake of the oh-so-intriguing daily newspaper.

He wrenched open the door only to see a pathetic ball of fluff perched in front of his feet, shivering violently, but somehow asleep. England carefully picked up the wretched cat, only to find the fluffy fur was very cold and damp, and felt that accursed prickle at his heart.

"You git," England muttered, as he headed inside with the cat in his arms. Although exactly who he was referring to would probably always remain a mystery.

After awkwardly cradling France to his body for a couple of minutes in order to warm him up, the Brit left him on a chair in his room, wrapped snuggly in green blankets like a mutated sausage, as he himself took perch on his bed. It was then, after several minutes left in silence, did England realize he felt quite lonesome.

"Ah, I wonder if Japan is free today..." he mused, and was interrupted by the sound of a doorbell. "...A visitor?" England said in disbelief, although there was a feeling of relief as well. "It better not be the bloody RSPCA-"

France fell to the floor right then with a loud and pained yelp as England got up and stromed out of his room, already in a muttering sort of tizzy about how much he hated the animal protection organization. "...Just a bunch of bloody rip-off artists with a fancy name...!"

He wrenched open the door, only to have a wicket basket of red and extremely shiny tomatoes shoved in his face. "What in the name of the Queen-"

"This is for you, _Ingleterre_!"

Spain exclaimed in his strangely-chirpy manner, despite being face to face with his former rival. An equally ditzy Northern Italy twirled about excitedly, exclaiming things along the lines of "pasta!" and pizza!" while Romano hung back grumpily and stubbed the gray earth with his shiny black boots.

"Spain?" England managed to sputter. "What in heaven's name are you doing here so early?" He asked the sunny nation, although he actually couldn't fathom why Spain would come at all.

_¿Yo?_ We're visiting, of course!" Spain said rather matter-of-factly. _"Mi amigo es un pequeño gato!_ And both Italia and Romano felt kinda bad about you two's predicament-"

"I didn't feel bad, bastard!"

"-So we decided to stop on by really quick to see him! _¿No, problema, verdad?_

_"Sí!"_ Italy said, waving his noodle-like arms. "Can we see him? Please, Mr. England?"

"Since we came all this way, you better show us, you English bastard. It's not like I think he looks cute and fluffy or anything stupid like that." Romano muttered the latter sentence under his breath as he kicked a small pebble.

England was more or less flabbergasted by this surprise visit, and in the momentary lapse of stunned silence he fell into, the four were alerted by the sound of savage cat-screeching.

They all turned, with shocked and confused expressions respectively, to see the white Persian wrapped up like a stuffed green sausage, inching furiously towards them, like a horrifically monstrous caterpillar. To the Italian brothers and Spain it was nothing more than blood-curling animal screams; to England it was a mixture of foul French and lividly broken English.

'_Angleterre, you inglorious_,' French obscenities, ' 'ow_ could you leave a 'elpless cat on the floor you,'_ more foul French, '_I'll claw your bloody eyes out and use them az appetizers to my famous Escargot on flambé!'_

The cat was now at the British man's side, and with an ungodly speed France sunk his teeth into one of England's trouser legs viciously.

"Gah! You bloody cat!" He screeched, trying to shake France off of his leg futilely while hopping about like a mad hatter.

Italy was watching the exchange with a rapidly quivering lip and wet eyes, as Romano watched with a small smile of semi-satisfaction on his face as his golden eyes silently sneered.

"Ah...we will stop by...later, I guess?" Spain said slowly as he smiled awkwardly, as the ever-fighting duo's noise escalated. "Enjoy the tomatoes...?" He set them down in the doorway

"Let go, you wretched French feline!"

'_Sacrebleu, you British bastard!' _

More foul language filled the air, (one-sided to all but England) until Spain and Italy could no longer bear it and even Romano winced.

_"Hasta luego!"_ And the sunny nation led the Italian brothers by the arms away from the heated squabble. _"Mi Dios, son terrible!"_

"Five euros say they won't survive the week," Romano snorted in a morbidly amused sort of way. "Don't-a you agree, stupid _fratello_?"

"Ve..." Italy muttered sadly, his curl drooping dejectedly. "I think big brother France is the one who won't-a survive being with Mr. Britain..."

"_Sí_. He needs all the prayers he can get, Italia," Spain said solemnly. "...And lots and lots of tomato juice is always good too."

* * *

_AN: Hello, everyone! I wrote this chapter at sparse intervals, so I hope you still enjoyed it a little at least. Not my very best, but meh. It's better than nothing at all...?_

_You certainly reap what you sow, eh? Caterpillar!France cat would be hilarious to see, no? And Romano is almost too easy for me to write. Seriously, it's scary how I seem to know exactly how to write him._

_Well, check out the poll on my profile, if you have time, and if you want faster updates, then review! Favorites and alerts are nice, but reviews mean the most to me. They motivate me so much, it's crazy. XD _

_Also, if your wondering where the drama is...it's coming, my pets...:)_

_Review?_

_Sayonara, Harvest Dragon_


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